


Four Times Richard Cried, and One Time He Didn’t

by PyroKlepto



Category: Galavant (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coming of Age, could be seen as Richard/Gareth or as a friendship, whichever you prefer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 15:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5503133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PyroKlepto/pseuds/PyroKlepto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard had always been an emotional child, and he didn’t change, no matter how much older he got. He remained very much invested in his feelings, and rarely had any qualms about showing them depending on who was around. This included tears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times Richard Cried, and One Time He Didn’t

**I.**

Richard ran into the stables, his heart thundering, and climbed up into the loft, curling up in the hay. The words of the other boys continued to echo in his head, and he felt his eyes sting. It wasn’t long before he was crying, attempting to keep as quiet as possible.

He was the king now; he had been for six months. But the other boys didn’t care about that. The way they treated him hadn’t changed any; at least, not when the adults were nowhere in sight.

During a pause in his crying when he needed to take a breath, Richard heard footsteps below him - whoever it was wasn’t trying to sneak, their boots making a very distinct sound on the floorboards and rustling the scraps of straw and hay. Instead of taking another breath, Richard held it in and tried very hard to stop trembling. 

He heard the footsteps pause, and then start up again - coming up the ladder to the loft. Richard bit back a whimper, trying to make himself as small as possible. 

At the first sign of movement, he kicked hay at the intruder. “Stay back.” He meant it to sound commanding, but it ended up far shakier than he had hoped it would.

“Oi, stop!” 

The voice held a familiar accent, and Richard froze. “Gareth?” 

“Aye.” Gareth shook his head, and a few pieces of hay fell from his shirt and fluttered down to the ground below. He climbed up into the loft. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Why?” Richard asked, even though he knew the answer. He curled up tighter, hugging his knees to his chest and sniffling.

“‘cause I’m your guard, and I have to make sure you’re alright.” Gareth gave him a look.”What happened?”

“Nothing,” Richard mumbled. 

“Oh, sure it was nothing,” Gareth retorted. “C’mon, something happened, and it’s my job to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Richard hesitated, and then finally gave in, recounting the other boys’ insults and harsh words in a rush. Gareth listened silently until Richard was finished. Then he pointed out, “You’re the king now. They can’t talk to you that way; you need to take charge and let them know you’re making the orders now.”

“I’m no good at taking charge,” Richard said, frowning.

“You need to learn. You’re going to be doing a lot of it from now on,” Gareth pointed out. 

Richard’s lips trembled as the weight of that information sank in - that he had an entire kingdom expecting him to make choices and give orders. A few tears rolled down his round cheeks, despite his best efforts to hold his emotions in check. His shoulders shook as he tried to keep from sobbing.

Gareth began to look immensely uncomfortable, and awkwardly patted Richard’s shoulder once. “C’mon,” he said gruffly. “Stop crying. If we see those boys again, I’ll give ‘em what-for. Now stop crying. You should go back to the castle now.”

Richard sniffled, drawing his sleeve across his face to wipe the tears away. He nodded tremulously and emerged from the pile of hay. Gareth descended the ladder first so that Richard had room to get down as well, and then the two of them made their way back to the castle. 

 

**II.**

Of all the things young Richard - young, for he was but sixteen winters old - hated most about being king, the responsibilities had to be one of the worst. The responsibility to make decisions for others, the responsibility to keep track of all sorts of legalities, the responsibility to run an entire kingdom… 

The responsibility to remain as stoic as possible at his own mother’s funeral, because crying meant weakness, and weakness was an unacceptable thing for a king to show.

So he stood there, on a sunny day that he silently railed against (because how dare the sun show its face during such a despondent occasion); a just slightly-too-big crown perched atop his chestnut curls as he watched his mother lowered into the ground. His heart felt like it was breaking and yet his position of power dictated he couldn’t show it. A few tears were shed, there could be no avoiding that, but he managed to hide them well enough.

Kingsley had returned for the funeral. Somehow, by some miracle, a messenger had managed to pinpoint his location and bring word of his mother’s death. 

Originally, the norm dictated that Richard would give the eulogy. But as soon as his brother arrived, he insisted that as the eldest, he should be the one to speak those words. Richard, truth be told, had been all too eager to turn the responsibility over to his brother. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get halfway through the eulogy before losing the ability to speak. 

Richard didn’t really listen to the eulogy. Instead, he focused on keeping his facial expression neutral, and on the fact that Gareth stood beside him - strong, stoic Gareth. Knowing that someone so unwavering was by his side helped Richard feel like maybe, just maybe, he’d make it through this funeral without making any grave mistakes. 

And he did, until the end. 

“Stay here, my king. I’ll fetch the horses,” Gareth said to Richard, once the ceremony was over. 

Richard nodded, jaw still clenched as a way of warding off his feelings. Gareth left, and Richard stood alone. 

But not for long. A familiar voice that somehow struck no small maount of anxiety into Richard spoke from behind him. “Hello, brother-of-mine.”

Richard turned around, perhaps a bit quicker than he should have, and reminded himself to stand up straight instead of hunching his shoulders (as he had learned to do often as a child, knowing that drawing attention of any kind away from Kingsley was a horrid idea). “Kingsley.”

“How has running the kingdom been going?” 

Richard could hear the barely-concealed scorn in his brother’s voice and clenched his jaw tighter. “It has been going well.”

“Has it been?” Kingsley took a step closer and Richard resisted the urge to take a step back. “Because I hear tell from the soldiers and from travelers that your leadership is weak and cowardly, and that you are not a good king.”

Richard did take a step back now, hands in fists at his sides as he tried to keep from running away. Before he could say that the rumours were wrong, Kingsley advanced a few more steps until he was directly in front of Richard, and spoke the words that never quite faded from Richard’s mind no matter how many years had passed.

“It’s no wonder that Mother was always so disappointed in you.”

Richard’s breath caught in his throat, and he knew he should stand up for himself, but he just couldn’t. “That’s not…” He couldn’t get the word ‘true’ out, because what if… it was?

He took a step backward, trembling, and when Kingsley tried to follow, Richard backed away more quickly, tripping and nearly falling.

That was when Kingsley got tackled to the ground. 

Richard regained his footing, hands shaking, and saw Kingsley scuffling with Gareth. Or rather, pinned to the ground and flailing about in a futile attempt to escape. He couldn’t until Gareth stood up and allowed him to, fixing him with a cold stare. 

“How dare you!” Kingsley burst out, scrambling to his feet and brushing off his clothing. “You’re--”

“I’m the king’s guard,” Gareth interrupted, voice steely. “Take one more step toward him and I’ll make you regret ever being born.” 

Kingsley looked from Gareth to Richard, then back again. Addressing Richard, he said, “You won’t always have your pet dog around, Dicky. You’d better learn to stop being such a weakling, before it’s too late.”

Gareth made another move toward Kingsley, but the other man was already striding away, a bit quicker than normal. 

Richard finally realised he was crying; during the panic of trying to get away, he hadn’t noticed. He angrily dashed the tears away with the back of his hand, feeling a flash of aggravation toward himself. And yet he couldn’t stop trembling, and the tears wouldn’t stop falling. 

“Did he hurt you?” Gareth asked, approaching and looking Richard up and down. 

“No,” Richard mumbled in a voice thick from emotion, staring at the ground. His crown tilted askew, in danger of falling off. Something twisted around inside his chest, a bleak creature coiling tight around his heart. “Gare, he said Mother…” His voice cracked, and he paused, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat. “Mother was disappointed in me.”

Gareth put together a string of colourful curse words under his breath. “He’s lucky I didn’t do more than knock him down.” He sighed. “Don’t believe him. It’s not true.” 

“What if it is? I’ll never know, because she’s dead,” Richard replied tremulously.

“It isn’t,” Gareth replied again, voice firm.

Richard went quiet for a long time, acutely aware of the fresh grave not more than ten yards away and wondering if his mother was listening or watching him from beyond. He shivered, hunching his shoulders. “Gare, I feel sick.” He tried to choke back a sob and didn't quite manage.

“Oi. Don’t do that.” Gareth placed a hand open-palmed against Richard’s back and guided him to the horses. “At least wait ‘til we get back to the castle. You can cry later.” 

Richard nodded, sniffling and wiping his eyes on his sleeve. He mounted his horse - with just a bit of help from Gareth - and sat there, looking back over his shoulder to his mother’s grave. His chest shuddered again as the sobs threatened to come back. 

The horse he sat upon whickered gently, and Richard finally turned away to face forward again. Gareth was on his own horse now, beside Richard and waiting patiently. 

Richard lowered his head, shutting his eyes tight for a moment and taking a few unsteady breaths. Finally, he opened them again, blinking tears off his eyelashes and putting on as composed an expression as he could bear, sitting as tall as he could manage in the saddle. Then he gently nudged his horse’s side with his heels, and started the ride back to the castle. Gareth followed closely behind.

Peasants and townsfolk sneaked curious glances as they saw the two ride through the streets, so much later than the rest of those who had attended the funeral. No one dared speak, and that worked well for Richard, who wasn’t sure he could say a single word without losing control of his emotions again. 

He managed to stay composed until he could lock himself away in his room and weep in peace. 

 

**III.**

Richard leaned against the barrier that kept him from losing his balance and falling off the top of his castle. The stars gleamed in the sky, and a crescent moon glowed. He watched them intently, the wind ruffling his hair; streaked through with silver like wispy lightning bolts, an effect brought on not from age but from the stress of ruling a kingdom.

His heart ached in his chest, and the sight of the celestial beauty in the sky only made it worse, though it was a far better subject to think upon than his troubles.

“Your Majesty.” 

The voice was familiar, and Richard felt a small sense of comfort upon hearing it. “Gare,” he returned in a wavery voice. He cleared his throat to make his voice steadier. “What are you doing here?”

“Lookin’ for you.” Gareth stepped up to stand beside Richard. He looked up at the sky, then back at the king. “What are you doing way up here? You ought to be sleeping.” 

“I’m not tired,” Richard replied, still watching the moon. He could feel Gareth’s eyes on him.

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean, what’s wrong?” Richard asked evasively, focusing intently on the sky. 

“What I mean is you’re up here staring at the sky for no reason, and you got teardrops in your beard,” Gareth retorted. “So c’mon then.”

Richard remained silent for a moment, irritated at himself for not being able to hide the fact he had been crying. The annoyance toward himself only brought more tears threatening to escape. He pushed them back. “What’s wrong with me, Gareth?” 

There was no response and then Gareth said, “I don’t follow.” 

“I mean, what’s wrong with me?” Richard repeated, drawing in a deep breath of the cold night air to keep himself steady. “Am I really so difficult to love?”

He could just barely hear Gareth give a nearly imperceptible sigh before asking, “Did you have bad luck with a woman again?” 

Richard buried his face in his hands, which he then dragged up and raked through his hair. “Yes. The bright-eyed one. Carissa.” 

“What happened?”

Richard heaved a slightly unsteady sigh. “I asked her to dinner, and she looked horrified and ran away.” 

Gareth was silent for a long time before saying, “She’s just another girl. There’ll be others.”

“But what if no one ever loves me?” Richard burst out. “I’m twenty-seven winters old, Gare!” 

“Aye. Just twenty-seven. You’ve plenty of time,” Gareth replied. “It’ll happen.” 

“What if it doesn’t?” Richard asked, voice choking up. He cleared his throat again, shaking his head vehemently. “What if no one will ever love me?” He turned to look at Gareth, blinking back tears.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gareth said gruffly. “Stop your worrying, just give it time. It’ll happen.” 

“You really think so, Gare?” Richard asked.

“Aye.” Gareth looked up at the sky for a moment. “Now c’mon, stop the crying and get inside out of the cold.” 

Richard wiped his eyes on his sleeve, still trembling a little. “I want to stay and watch the stars. You go on inside if you like.” 

He heard Gareth’s footsteps walk away and back inside; and, irrationally perhaps, Richard’s eyes filled with tears again. He had hoped Gareth might want to stay; but then, it was late, and it was cold, and Richard told himself to stop being foolish.

He drifted off into his own thoughts most of which - when they weren’t focused on his fear of never being loved - revolved around wondering whether the stars could hear him if he sang to them. 

A few minutes later, someone draped something over his shoulders, and Richard turned sharply, startled. Gareth stood there at his side again, facing straight forward and staring off into the distance. Richard reached up to touch the item on his shoulders and realised it was a blanket. He smiled, blinking the last of the tears away. “Thank you, Gare.” 

Gareth made a sound of acknowledgement without actually speaking words. Richard watched him for a moment, and then went back to gazing at the stars, much warmer and a little less upset than he was before.

 

**IV.**

“Your Majesty?” 

Richard looked up from the orange he was peeling - with his hands, because no one really trusted him with a knife in casual settings - and saw a man standing there. He vaguely recognised him as someone who worked at the stables. “Yes, what is it?”

The man shifted from foot to foot, avoiding eye contact for a moment. “My king… I… I am afraid I have unhappy news to bring to you.” 

Richard frowned, tilting his head just a bit. “What sort of news?” 

“Your… your steed--Snowdrop--it… she…” The man drew in a deep breath. “She has died, Your Majesty.”

The room fell silent for a few heartbeats - the minstrels immediately stopped playing their instruments, and the few servants there in the throneroom froze motionless. Not even a breath could be heard.

“She what?” Richard asked in a low voice, brow furrowing and lips pressing into a thin line. 

“Died.” The man’s voice had gone much quieter, and there was a trembling in his shoulders, from fear no doubt. 

Richard threw his orange with force and it careened off the man’s chest and bounced away across the throneroom. Richard said nothing, stepping away from his throne and hurrying out into the corridors. He kept up a quick pace all the way outside and to the stables.

Just outside the door of the stable, Gareth had seized the front of a stable boy’s tunic and held one hand up, clenched in a fist and ready to strike. He seemed to be trying to get some sort of information; perhaps on what had happened, and why nothing had been done to help the horse before she passed away. Richard wasn’t quite sure what was being said. He was too intent on pushing past Gareth and the boy and running into the stable.

Inside, he saw Snowdrop lying motionless on the floor of one of the stalls. It felt surreal to see her without her body slowly rising and falling as she breathed. Richard stood over her for a moment, feeling as though his own heart had stopped. 

“S-Sire--” A stableboy’s voice spoke from behind him, sounding uncertain. 

Richard turned sharply. “Out. All of you leave! Get out!” he roared. 

The two stableboys tripped over themselves in the rush to escape. Gareth stood silently by the door, his expression grim - though tinged with something else… something a bit softer. Concern, maybe. 

“You too,” Richard demanded, standing rigidly. “Out.” 

Gareth inclined his head briefly, then turned and left without a sound, shutting the door behind him. 

Richard turned back to the horse lying very still on the floor and sank to his knees beside her. When he reached out to touch her neck, she already felt cold. She didn’t feel like the same horse who had been one of his companions for years. 

Tears stung the corner of his eyes and he edged a bit closer, gently stroking Snowdrop’s neck with a trembling hand. “I… I hope it didn’t hurt much, Snowy, when you--when you died…” he whispered. He almost expected to hear a faint whicker in reply; she had always responded when he spoke to her. Of course she didn’t now. 

Richard bent his head. “I’m sorry I…” His voice broke. “…wasn’t here.” He began to shake and subconsciously tangled his hand in Snowdrop’s mane, finally letting himself cry, alone.

Yet if he had looked outside, he would have seen Gareth - who knew exactly what was happening inside the stables - standing silently by the door, arms crossed, fixing any passerby who seemed too curious with a steely look. Guarding the king as always.

 

**V.**

A murmuring rippled throughout the crowd that had gathered; a sound that held both worry and astonishment. Because today was the day the king would fight his own guard to the death. 

No one had expected Richard’s wife to take the throne over so completely. Nor had anyone expected Kingsley, of all people, to return after such a long absence. But never had anyone ever been able to fathom the idea of Richard battling the man who had been his loyal guard since they were children.

They had expected it least of all. 

The match would begin within the next five minutes, and Richard paced in agitated circles. This couldn’t be happening. He had thought he would be fighting his brother, not Gareth! Surely this was a nightmare, and he would wake up at any moment.

But he didn’t. And then he was being ushered out into the outdoor arena, heart thundering against his ribcage.

This wasn’t the sparring Gareth had once engaged with him in; this wasn’t his many failed attempts to teach Richard how to fight. Because Richard didn’t know how to fight - he had never been able to grasp it. He was walking to his death, and the thought terrified him. He had always looked at his own death as something distant. Others would die, as his parents had, but he himself… the concept was a far-off one.

And now suddenly it wasn’t. 

Gareth stood at the opposite end of the arena, his facial expression as unreadable as always. Richard had tried to talk to him the night before; tried to tell him how much Gareth’s friendship had always meant, tried to tell him how much Richard cared about him. At first, Gareth had snapped at him - “ _Even though I’m the one who’s gonna kill you, it’s not my fault. It’s not my fault. I warned you._ ” - then when Richard had persisted, he had brushed it off, saying they would speak tomorrow. But tomorrow had arrived, and they hadn’t spoken another word to one another. 

The thought of not saying what needed to be said before he died made Richard’s stomach churn. So when the time came to approach Gareth before the duel started, he tried to speak. “Gare, I--” 

“We don’t have time for this,” Gareth said in a low voice, casting a glance at the area where Madalena and Kingsley sat.

“No, stop that,” Richard said, scowling briefly. “You wouldn’t let me say this last night, and I’m going to say it now. Gareth, you’ve always been there for me when no one else was. And I know I’m not always the easiest to get along with, but you always tried, and that meant a lot to me.” 

Gareth’s lips were set in a straight line, and it appeared as though his jaw was clenched. His eyes darted, looking everywhere and at everything but Richard.

“Your friendship means a lot to me, and you mean a lot to me. And I wanted to make sure you knew that before I--” 

Before he could finish saying what he wanted to say - and before he could ask why Gareth refused to look at him, whether it was because he was scared too - Kingsley interrupted. “Enough with the chatter, boys! Don’t forget why you’re here!” 

Richard tried to protest, but everyone was watching, and Gareth was backing away, and he was losing the last chance he had to speak to his best friend. 

As the countdown for the duel began, Richard decided to fight. He would be forced to, of course, but he wanted to really fight, to the best of his ability. Gareth would still win, of course he would; the guard who had been getting into scuffles and brawls since he was but ten winters old. 

But the very least Richard could do before facing whatever lied ahead was to try and do the best he could and make his friend proud one last time.

Then the countdown ended, and the fight began.

With every movement, Richard felt fear. He could barely hold onto his sword, but somehow managed to. His automatic reaction was to watch Gareth’s face, to try and read it for some sort of emotion, but his focus had to remain completely on blocking Gareth’s attacks.

The clash of the sword blades rang through the warm air, and sunlight flashed off the bright metal, reflecting patches of light across the arena. Richard’s muscles started to burn before too long, and he wondered how much longer he could keep up giving the fight his all.

Suddenly, his blade connected with something that didn’t make a metallic sound. Richard, momentarily baffled, pulled his arm back. 

He saw red on silver. He heard a dull thud and looked up to see Gareth’s sword fall to the grass. And then Gareth fell, and there was more red, and his hands were clasped against his side. 

Richard blinked. Then his own sword slowly slipped from his hands. “No…” he whispered. “No. No, no.” He dropped to his knees beside Gareth. “No, no, no.” He reached out to place his own trembling hand over Gareth’s. When he took his hand away, it was red, just like Gareth’s. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Richard babbled, his whole body shaking as something crushed his heart in its grip and the panic set in.

Gareth opened his mouth to speak, then coughed, then finally managed to get the words out. “Stop it. I’m not worth the fuss, you silly ponce,” he rasped, giving Richard the ghost of a smile. “Was only a matter of time before this happened and you know it.” 

“No, no, you’re worth the fuss,” Richard said frantically, too shocked for tears as he fumbled with his shirt, trying to tear one of the sleeves off to use for a bandage. “Hold on, just hold on, oh, Gare, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t you…” Gareth struggled to draw in a breath deep enough to refill his lungs. “Don’t you dare blame yourself. Wasn’t your fault.”

“I stabbed you. Gare, I stabbed you,” Richard said, still fighting with his shirt sleeve. “I didn’t--I didn’t think I would--” 

“‘course you didn’t, I let you.” Gareth watched him through half-shut eyes.

“But…” Richard hesitated, trying to process too much at once. He finally gave up on turning his shirt sleeve into a makeshift bandage and started trying to stop the bleeding with his own hands. Gareth weakly pushed them away with a faint wince. Richard found words again. “But why, why would you do that? How could you be so… so…” His voice quavered. 

“I’m your guard, you prat,” Gareth responded, his voice faded and slightly slurred. “Not allowed to let you get hurt. Not allowed to hurt you meself. Wouldn’t want to anyway.” 

Richard suddenly wanted to punch something in the hopes it would help him to stop being overwhelmed, but he didn’t. “Gare… Gare… how could you… Gare, no, this isn’t right, I can’t be the king without you, I never could!” 

“Ah…” Gareth made a noise that sounded like it was supposed to be a laugh, but it came out more of a rasp. “‘course you can. Just give it time, don’t let anyone tell you what to do…” He reached up with one hand, reaching for Richard’s head but only managing to brush red fingertips across his face before losing strength and letting his hand fall. “… and for God’s sake keep that damn mane of hair out of your face.” 

Richard felt like he was suffocating, unable to breath. “Gareth, I can’t--”

Gareth cringed, hands curling into loose fists, before going slack. His eyes shut. 

“Gare.” Richard reached out and touched his friend’s shoulder. “Gare. Gare, no. No, come on, wake up. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.” He shook Gareth slightly, eliciting no reaction. He could see that Gareth’s chest no longer rose and fell, but kept shaking him, touching his face, trying to get some sort of response, any sort of response. “Gareth, no. This is another bad dream, isn’t it? I’ll wake up and you’ll be walking around the castle, Mr. Tough Guy like always.”

There was no answer. 

Richard shook his friend one more time. “Gare, come on, stop it," he whispered. "Stop it. You’re the strong one, you always have been. Not me. You’re the strong one…” 

He received no response, and yanked his hand back as though burned, because suddenly Gareth felt different. He was still warm, but it was fading. And something wasn’t the same; something surreal… it reminded Richard eerily of how Snowdrop had felt years ago. Something cold. It brought back the sensation of loss. Something he had never wanted to feel again. 

And yet unlike with Snowdrop, he didn’t cry. 

Instead, if anyone had been close enough to see it, they would have seen him go very still. And they would have seen his eyes, not filled with tears of loss and not chips of blue ice brought on by cold fury, but twin storms - emotions hidden behind them, but determination at the forefront. They would have seen him look at Gareth one last time, and his hands clench into fists. 

But no one was close enough to see these things. So instead, everyone held their breath, and they saw Richard kneeling there for a long time. Then they saw him reach up with bloody hands to push his hair back and away from his face, then slowly get to his feet, picking up his sword. 

And they saw him walk slowly, deliberately, across the arena to where Madalena and Kingsley still sat. Richard knew they had expected to see him in tears. He had expected the same. But that wasn’t the case. 

He stopped in front of both of them, gripping the sword in one hand, streaks of blood standing out starkly on his pale skin. He looked at the two of them, meeting their eyes. And they seemed to shrink, just the faintest bit; no, they hadn’t expected this at all.

“Get out,” Richard said in a level voice. His heart still trembled, and he still felt like something inside of him was coming apart at the seams, but he somehow managed to stand tall. 

Kingsley laughed, but it died quickly when he saw the look in his younger brother’s eyes and his blood-streaked face. “What do you mean?”

“I mean get out. Both of you,” Richard replied. “Get out of my castle. Get out of my kingdom. I never want to see you here again. You got what you wanted. I fought. I won. Now leave, and don’t ever come back. You come back here, and I will have you both executed.” 

At first, they only stared at him, as though unable to comprehend what had happened. But his grip on the sword tightened, and it didn’t go unnoticed. Madalena and Kingsley both got out of their chairs, and - keeping a very close eye on Richard - made their exit. 

Richard turned to one of the guards standing around. “Follow them. Make sure they leave the city.” The man nodded and hurried away. 

Then he turned to face the crowds - all sitting motionless, silent. And he called out in a voice loud enough for them all to hear, “You too. Out. All of you leave! You saw what you came here to see, and it’s over.”

The creaking and rustling of dozens upon dozens of men and women trying to leave as quickly as possible filled the air. And Richard stood there on the platform, staring at the horizon, waiting for the moment he would be alone. For real, this time. 

The entire world was shifting and fracturing and breaking into pieces that would never be mended. But he had responsibilities upon his shoulders, tasks he needed to attend to, and a funeral - one befitting for a hero - to arrange.

He could cry later.


End file.
